patience
by smithensy
Summary: Fantine gives her infant daughter a bath.


The cries have turned into little whimpers, but they still echo in her ears, a tinny, harassing sound.

Fantine's hand shakes as she pours water into the basin. It is her nerves: crying tests her patience. The sound of her own daughter crying is worse than the most shrill wails of a child who is not her own. She does not like to wait or to take care when that horrid sound reaches her ears, but her sense of duty never fails her. Motherhood must be all about patience, she has thought, and it is something of a motto.

When she sets the saucepan down, upon the little dressing table that but months ago was home to trinkets and trimmings and now keeps strips of fabric from cut-up old chemises and teething rings, it seems to land with a thud. A ripple forms in the basin; steam rises from it and in the draft forms the shape of curls, tendrils, locks of hair.

Her daughter, held securely with one arm, legs around her waist, tugs at the neckline of her gown and watches it with wide eyes, now gurgling a little, but quiet.

Those eyes seem like a strange looking-glass, sometimes, the same shape and color as her own, but her hair — dark and curly, grown in thick already — her hair is all her father's.

She is transfixed, and Fantine simply allows her to watch, bouncing her in arms. And then in one moment the little one reaches out to what she sees, and then her little face scrunches up and her eyes, Fantine's own eyes, begin to water, and she is screaming again.

Fantine steals her back and turns around. Her hand is a little red; she takes a hold of her by the elbow and gives it a soft kiss. The cries subside. It seems Euphrasie was more surprised by the heat than truly burnt by it, and relief washes over her. Earlier in the summer she had become sunburnt; Fantine had been terrified despite the severity (or lack thereof) of the affliction.

"You'll feel better once I've washed you," Fantine says, and she holds her and pets her hair as they wait for the water to cool. Euphrasie blinks slowly at the touch, at the continued gentle bouncing which seems always necessary to truly calm her. "Yes, you will feel all better, but it is not time yet, my dear, let us be patient."

Infants do, naturally, come with three quarters of a year's worth of preparation, but even with this time, spent accompanied by three other young women and guided by the kindly wife of her landlord, Fantine had found herself rattled by motherhood. Euphrasie had more needs than to be clad in summer dresses and lace caps; Fantine had met them with love… and with, too, a good deal of error. It did not all come naturally.

But she takes the little joys where she can: her daughter adores baths. She adores to give them, despite the reasons she generally must do so. When her baby is hurting, or tired, or messy, they are a comfort to her, and Fantine, too, is comforted by providing comfort. It was like second nature, to nurture. Oh, she had needed to learn it, as well: 'Fantine, enfantine,' Favourite had said the first time, and along with Zéphine had shown her how high to fill the basin, how deep to dip her bare elbow into the water as it cooled, how gently to rub the cloth along Euphrasie's soft, new skin; but it was not a great chore to learn, and an easy skill to hone.

Fantine hums a soft tune as she sways before the dressing table with her daughter in her arms — something she'd heard on the street, perhaps, or at a dance, although she has not gone to any dances recently. Tholomyes is not fond of that, she knows, but in his good way he has accepted that she cannot always count on her neighbor in the residence building to mind their child. He has been generous with his money and with his time: the only thing she has not yet received from him is his hand in marriage.

But she is patient. Patience is a virtue worth teaching one's daughter, and so she is very, very patient.

Little Euphrasie again has quieted. She mouths a little at Fantine's collarbone; Fantine shifts her weight that she might test the temperature of the water — with her elbow, not her fingers. It is the right warmth.

She lowers her into the basin with utmost care, toes first, then her ankles and legs and belly and shoulders, and supports her head in her hand.

"My darling," coos Fantine, as she reaches with her free hand to retrieve a felted cloth. She wets it and wrings it out over the baby's knees; Euphrasie splashes her hands as though in reply. "My darling, my _Cosette_," for she had thought of the nickname earlier, a prettier replacement than any false name she'd used prior.

Her daughter smiles up at her, as she knew she would. She is calm, long forgotten is her physical discomfort from earlier; it is as though she shed no tears at all.

Fantine splashes her, and she giggles.

It is only the third time she has laughed, and her heart swells. She begins to rub her gently with the cloth, and thinks to herself, _I should wait forever, be always patient, if I knew in the end she would smile_.


End file.
